Game Theory
by Petronia
Summary: Tezuka, Fuji, and the simultaneous levels on which a game plays out. (In which Fuji reads Choderlos de Laclos; Because I Say So Dammit.)


**Game Theory**

_Holidays '03 Giftfic: starlighter_

You've been playing Fuji more often, lately, and it's becoming a distraction.

It's not unreasonable, on first view. In the early run-up to the competition period your rigourous match-ups have been sparse, and as team captain – let alone training or bench coach – you can see the logic by which the singles practices are ordered. With the possible exception of Echizen, Fuji could win with ease over any of the regulars if he applies himself – which is not to say he doesn't lose. His doubles play needs work, and on the odd occasion he simply fails to make the effort. Rarely does he come close to displaying the intensity that he exudes in his more grueling competition matches.

So Ryuzaki-sensei sets him to play you, Inui follows her lead – and Fuji loses every time. Not easily, but never putting up the fight you expect.

It feels oddly like choreography.

There's no more pinning down your suspicion than a drop of water. When you point out an issue with his swing or footwork Fuji smiles ruefully, sincerely, and promises to work on it. Whatever the _it_ of the day happens to be.

The word you want is camouflage. All of Fuji Shuusuke is camouflage, from the smile to the good humour to the slender unthreatening frame, to the pageboy hair cut just fashionably enough to be unremarkable. If you were the type to be taken in by camouflage your eye would skip over him. Of course you'd fall afoul of him sooner or later, on the court or off; upon which you'd remember to be careful, but there still wouldn't be anything to see. And if you weren't the type—

If you weren't you'd keep looking, trying to find the something behind the nothing, while Fuji would smile agreeably and make small talk and cluck over missed balls he hadn't strained himself to catch. He could keep this up for years at a time, at the end of which you'd be sure of little except that there was something there. You'd turn around and there he'd be, taking the scene in with those cool blue eyes – taking you in – and not letting anything back out.

Strategy is one thing, and instinct is another.

Strategy dictates that there are more pressing intra-team issues to consider than Fuji, who in second singles position is a near-guaranteed point for Seigaku – when he has no inherent incentive to win other than the fact that victory is more pleasant than defeat. Put family or personal pride at stake, and he becomes devastating. That his strengths are as unquantifiable as the rest of him is irrelevant to a pragmatist, as long as Seigaku is the side to field him.

Fuji, then, is an ace in one's hand; an unqualified advantage. In_ second_ singles position.

Blue eyes. Slim hands and light voice and ever-friendly smile, and (that way he has of tilting his head a little, so that his hair shifts softly and his throat forms a line that draws the gaze) blue eyes that follow you everywhere you turn.

He could keep it up for years before you realise.

Instinct whispers: never let him get behind you.

Never give him a reason.

* * *

Games with Tezuka play out on several different levels, which makes them automatically interesting. There is the basic level of point, set and match – on which you lose, because it's what everyone does and there's a chain of command you have no desire to undermine. There's the level on which Tezuka _knows_ this, and frowns if you've displayed clumsiness beyond a certain pale. He's not a narcissist. If the two of you played seriously he may well chalk up a meaningful win, but if you're visibly refusing to push yourself the effect is related back to the team.

The trick, then, is to keep up appearances. That in itself could keep you occupied: it's difficult merely to _look_ as if you mean it when you're up against an opponent as formidable as Tezuka Kunimitsu, even in a practice match. Power and skill are seductive things. They draw you in, sober you despite yourself and make you mean things you might not mean upon level-headed consideration. In a general sense this is part of the fascination of tennis; you slipped under before you knew it, the first time you played Echizen. But Tezuka would get a consistent rise out of you—

Were he allowed. You tend to sidestep the challenge, and concentrate on throwing your games in the most artistic manner possible.

There's another level on which each practice match you play with Tezuka is a volley exchanged during a far more leisurely game, one point gained or lost among many. On this level Tezuka tends to sidestep you.

You read a certain book once. It belonged to your sister, and dealt – you eventually came to understand – with games and their consequences. In the book the game was played between a man and a woman, who discussed it as an abstraction though its effect on others was real enough. They assumed that by virtue of definition, one could only lose on a game what one has chosen to stake.

The game bound them intimately, first as confidants, then as enemies. Eventually the woman maneuvred the man into an impasse from which no move within the rules could have extricated him, thinking thus to claim the victory. The man, however, no longer differentiated between his pieces and himself. Rather than concede defeat, he destroyed the game; with the game, the players.

The logical fault: one does not always choose one's stakes. Especially when they rise.

You think of this when you watch Tezuka, the sureness of his shoulders, the contained strength you know to be fragile. You think of this because you watch Tezuka.

You have a natural affinity for games; you construct them in secret, modify them on the fly, invent rules as necessary. You like winning, but you prefer the unspoken agreements necessary to keep a ball in the air. And you remain carefully aware of the consequences – the inevitable consequences – of the games you play.

Especially on yourself.

* * *

_— Montreal, December 2003_


End file.
